


Where Gods and Dreamers Dance

by bluebeholder



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: (as usual), Inspired by Poetry, J. Alfred Prufrock References, M/M, POV First Person, POV Outsider, Slow Dancing, They're Useless Again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 04:03:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: A pleasant late night is passed in Dunwall Tower. There's a lot of dancing.





	Where Gods and Dreamers Dance

**Author's Note:**

> As prompted by wehavekookies and mmthemayoarts: suspenders, dancing, and romance. Pro tip: listening to Ed Sheeran singing “How Would You Feel” while reading this is entirely appropriate. It’s got the right tone indeed. 
> 
> This. Got really poetic. 
> 
> Don’t write in the Outsider’s voice.
> 
>  _He’s really chatty_.
> 
> The title is inspired by/partially comes from HP Lovecraft’s “Poetry and the Gods”.

The birthday of an Empress is no small matter, and the sixteenth birthday of an Empress who has finally earned the respect of her people is even more significant than that. Emily is a figurehead of the new era, the post-Plague era, the time when the Empire will unify and become strong. She’s terribly excited and it’s infectious, transforming this from the celebration of one young woman’s birthday into a celebration of the Empire as a whole. Though it’s bitterly cold by the standards of the Month of Rain, the city is preparing with enthusiasm for parades and fireworks, ready to dance in the streets. It will be a wild day and night.

Tonight, however, is not the night of that celebration.

Dunwall Tower sleeps, and in the fire-lit room that belongs to the Lord Protector, the curtains are drawn and the doors are locked. There is good wine on the table, the best wine, made by a brewer whose ancestor brought the first red grapes from Serkonos to Tyvia, thereby setting up the future rivalry of the two isles in the creation of the finest wine, a conflict for which men have loved and died. Two glasses sit by it: a kindness extended by a man who constantly forgets that his lover is not made of human flesh. A bed is waiting, covers turned down invitingly, but we will not go for a while, yet.

There is dancing to be done, in the courtly style of Dunwall, though it’s only the two of us. An audiograph plays music, composed by the same man who will later find himself composing marching music for the armies of Morley during the 1877 rebellion against the Empress; my dancing partner does not know this, and so to him the light notes are as innocent as they seem.

I take a deep joy in recognizing that he has no awareness of the bitterness inherent in even the simplest of things.

To be clearer on the point: I take joy in _him_.

Corvo holds me as if I might break when we dance, though the thought of breaking me is nearly laughable. Nearly. I am well aware of the course of events which could do the job, but when Corvo is present I can almost forget that course even exists. It’s only the two of us, dancing in his room where no one will ever know that I have been.

He is dressed well, in all the finery he will wear to his daughter’s celebration. The whole suit is perfectly tailored, to set off his magnificent physique and cement his status as the most powerful man in the Empire. It is also made to be something he can fight in, if necessary.

A high-collared and long coat, drawing in at the waist, gives attention to his broad shoulders and athletic build. Its charcoal-gray fine broadcloth is of the highest quality; the ribbed silk waistcoat he wears beneath, a stylishly lighter gray, has golden embroidery on its hems in the subtle shape of hydrangea blossoms. His white shirt is crisply pressed; his black boots are polished to a shine. All the buttons in evidence are of gilded brass, chased in lacework designs. His gray-streaked hair is cut; his beard is trimmed. It is all perfect; he is the image of manly beauty.

All of this is without the weapons he will wear even on the joyous day of celebration. I am fully aware that nothing at all will happen to threaten young Emily that day whether he goes armed or not, but I say nothing. I don’t interfere in that way; and, besides, Corvo would ignore me and carry the weapons all the same. I simply enjoy the fact that he is not armed now.

“You dance well,” he says.

“I have spent a lot of time watching dancers,” I reply. “I could teach you the steps of hunting dances from the most distant peoples of Pandyssia, or from the rituals of ancient civilizations that sank beneath the sea three thousand years ago, or from the courting dances of the whales, or the portentous dances of the stars. This is nothing by comparison.”

Corvo laughs. It’s a little breathless, as if he’s not sure what to do with my admittedly rather poor flirtation and is yet somehow charmed. Something in me sings with delight at bringing this normally dour man such happiness. “You’re remarkable.”

“I’m the Outsider.”

“Even so.” There’s the ghost of a kiss on my forehead and I shiver.

Being one with the Void never took away my ability to enjoy the physical world, but until now I have never had the remotest desire to indulge in it. But then Corvo was born. His first cry as an infant sent shockwaves into the future. His first step changed a hundred courses, and the first time he swung a blade he cut through a dozen strands of fate. He is not exceptional, in this way: I have known many others with a similar potential.

He is exceptional all the same.

The audiograph ends with a faint hiss stuttering into silence and we stop. Corvo bends at the waist, a perfect and courtly bow, and presses a kiss to the back of my hand. His eyes sparkle with uncharacteristic happiness as he quietly turns to attend to the music. I wait and watch, standing with my hands behind my back, which is ordinary, and my feet planted firmly on the soft carpet, which is abnormal. Corvo is the only man for whom I will stand on the ground.

A singer, of delicate voice, begins to sing from the audiograph. I move to take Corvo’s hands again, but he hesitates in the dance, drawing me close. Our hands, folded, fingers entwined, rest between us. And again he is—so gentle. Careful. Worshipful, but not as one might worship a god. As one might worship a lover. In the language there is no difference; in the action there is all the difference in the world.

“Wait,” he says, looking down at me. In Corvo’s eyes I see more than he can see in mine. Mine are only visions of the Void, empty: his are full of the golden spray of sunshine on the rooftops of Karnaca, the shimmer of firelight through a glass of amber whiskey, the shine of warm lamplight on his daughter’s hair as she listens to a story. And these are only a few visions. I could look into his eyes forever and never tire of the moments I find there.

“We should be dancing,” I say. “Is that not why I’m here?”

“We have time,” Corvo chastises lightly. Chastising a god. Only Corvo would ever dare…

I grant him a faint shrug. “Oh, yes. There will be time to murder and create, and time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate…”

“You’re talking in riddles again,” he says, leaning in to speak against my forehead. His words ruffle my hair and I close my eyes. To listen is as wonderful as to see.

“My dear, I am a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and that was only poetry anyway.”

Corvo hums. “I didn’t know you were a poet.”

“I didn’t claim the poem as my own.”

“Plagiarist.”

“Plagiarism does not exist. The thing that has been is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun.” It would waste our time to explain that I am the definition of a plagiarist, summoning up these better words from men more competent in speech than I. A poet and a prime minister and a holy book: all from a future that, once, might have been, but is no more. The Void holds many secrets and I know them all.

He laughs again and pulls back to undo the buttons and fastenings of his jacket. “Don’t let me be scandalous alone, I beg,” Corvo says, gesturing to my high-collared jacket.

“You set the standard of appropriate conduct for the men of the Empire. Nothing you do is, technically, scandalous,” I am compelled to note, even as I begin to carefully undo the fastenings of my jacket. This is a gift from Corvo, because my former clothing was somewhat out of fashion. I confess to preferring this black suit, with its double row of buttons, to my former brown jacket with buckles. It was, indeed, somewhat out of fashion. Not that I care, living in the Void, but there is a certain appeal in the novelty all the same.

I do not wear a waistcoat beneath my jacket, so the moment it shrugs from my shoulders my shirt and braces are in full evidence. Corvo has the added frustration of dealing with his; I have the privilege of watching him slowly and carefully undress. His braces, too, are embroidered; this is a pleasant surprise that I did not expect. Covered in black silk and embroidered in the same pattern as the waistcoat’s hems, they button on in precisely the right way.

The Y-back strains over his shirt when he bends to drape the waistcoat over the chair. I am reminded that, in some ways, I am definitely still a victim to human desires. Corvo is strong enough that he could sweep me straight into his arms, and this power is nowhere more evident than in the defined muscles of his back.

He changes the audiograph; this is a sweeping waltz, one which demands a ballroom and a hundred spinning couples. But it is only two in a small room, and that is more than enough. Corvo takes one of my hands. His other hand rests on my waist, warm through the shirt. My free hand is on his shoulder, and my head rests on his shoulder, when it can.

We turn together, our waltz restricted by the room. The tempo, in glacially slow three-quarter time, catches my attention: at seventy beats a minute, it matches the resting rate of Corvo’s heart. I smile to myself. What a beautiful coincidence.

“If we could, I’d stay here forever,” Corvo says, lightly squeezing my hand. “But I don’t think either of us have the time for that.”

I let go of his shoulder to rest my hand on his cheek, enjoying the way his eyes slide half-closed and he leans into the touch. His short beard is soft on my hand; his skin is warm and so alive. “There will be time,” I repeat, “time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea…”

Corvo turns his head and kisses my palm. The man can’t get enough of such touches; luckily, neither can I. “Do you not have words of your own? You’re so eloquent, ordinarily.”

 “What can I say, my dear?” I brush my thumb over his lips, anticipating. Corvo shivers, and a delightful crackle of electricity races up my spine, knowing where this will end. “Should I wax poetic on your magnificence? Draw parallels between the breadth of your shoulders and the span of the sky? Make metaphors of a lighthouse and your eyes? There are a million dreams I could spin for you and yet none would capture the truth.”

We no longer dance. Corvo’s arm encircles my back, holding me still: I cradle his face in the palm of my hand. It is an impossible moment. I _cherish_ it. “I’ve thought of writing poetry,” Corvo says. He blinks slowly at me, smiling like the besotted fool he is. “You don’t want to see my efforts.”

“I saw them,” I say dryly. There’s no point prevaricating: they were bad.

For a moment, he looks taken aback, and then he bursts into laughter. “I forget you’re…you, sometimes,” he says, when he calms.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, when he smiles. Age is treating him well; at nearly forty-six, he is losing the rakish charm he’d held in youth as he gains a regal if rough-edged charisma. I know already the man he’ll become, and I welcome him with open arms. The years are long, but it’s always good to see a familiar face…and I can never forget Corvo’s.

“Most of my worshipers don’t forget my nature,” I say, raising a brow. It’s worth questioning, if only for the sake of curiosity; I don’t care for worshipers, one way or the other, with very few exceptions.

“I don’t worship you,” Corvo says. His voice takes on a new quality and I become very aware of the way he draws me close. Aha, the bed will see some use, soon enough. I had begun to wonder what he’d choose. “I _adore_ you.”

Adoration is a strong word. But there’s no point in arguing with this man; he’s utterly useless when he’s like this. The only thing to be done is to kiss him, so I do.

I’m playing a little fast and loose with the rules, now; action is not in my nature. There is an argument to be made that even observation may change the course of events, but it’s not one that I wish to bring in here. And besides: Corvo made his choice long ago. I’m here because he decided I should be. If he had turned away I would have had no choice in the matter, but he turned toward me instead. He welcomed me into his bed, his life, and his heart in a way that no one truly has before.

I am the Void, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable. I exist beyond time, untouched by its arrow, everywhere and nowhere at once. I am the leviathan in the deep. I am the ruler of rats, of plagues, of wind and storm and the things that live in the hearts of darkness. I am nightmare and inspiration. I am magic in its rawest essence. I have no name. I am the whisper in the silence. I am the Outsider.

In Corvo’s eyes, I’m a lover, albeit a strange one. I am a bad flirt, as breakable as a human, remarkable and exceptional. He does not worship me. No: he adores me. He wears my mark as another man might wear a wedding band. He thinks of “Outsider” not as a title, not as a description, not as a being, but as a name. When he hears the whisper in the silence, he _listens_.

And it is for this reason that I let him dance with me, and give me wine, and look into my eyes. It’s why I kiss him, why I embrace him. I know what I am. I know what he believes me to be.

I know which one I prefer to be.

**Author's Note:**

> So basically Corvo and the Outsider strip down to their underclothes. Visible suspenders were considered EXTREMELY risqué up through the 1930s in our world; given the semi-Victorian tone of fashion in Dishonored, I find it appropriate to give a similar aesthetic here. If you’re interested in braces/suspenders, the blog “[Everything About Braces](http://everythingaboutbraces.blogspot.com/)” has a LOT to say on the subject. I binge-read half of it and it’s a delight.


End file.
